


Broken Dawn

by Something_Inconspicuous



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ultimate Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Something_Inconspicuous/pseuds/Something_Inconspicuous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair recounts the moment he realized his love had died, and how wrong it was to see her lifeless. Now the sun casts its familiar shine on the world, and he is faced with the truth that she will never see another dawn again, and that the world is still moving without her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah just a one-shot, bit of prose...I've been thinking a lot about dead people/animals lately. Which sounds morbid and creepy, but uh...okay it is morbid and creepy.. I mostly just think about the difference between holding a live or dead body. How strange it feels...those muscles you're so used to feeling tight suddenly all slack, with no reaction to your touch...When someone talks about holding a lifeless body, do you ever realize the magnitude of that? You will them to move, will those muscles to tighten as they support the body, but they can't. And...well, I'll put the rest in the fic. Enjoy, yo.

He’d never been more sickened by the dawn. 

How...how could the sun be rising when so much darkness was yet to be faced? How could the streets, still soaked in blood, be illuminated by anything besides hellfire? How could a new day arise, when it would never be able to greet her again? 

She’d loved the sunrise. He remembered watching her, as they started out at first light, her eyes locked onto the clouds above. Her lips in a blissful smile. She probably didn’t even realize she was smiling. Something about those dark blue clouds, rings of pink and yellow, sparked something in the mage which went beyond her conscious mind. He could see that she was actually touched by the rising of the sun. Moreso, perhaps, than any other human being he’d ever known. She was almost elf-like in her connection to nature, and it was a wonder, considering she’d lived her life happily within a tower. 

The sincerity of her rapture made her look like a child. For a long time, he’d seen her as more of a youth to be protected. But her position as leader had given her plenty of opportunity to demonstrate her maturity, her ability to protect herself and everyone around her. She was compassionate and easily joyed, even in the midst of the Blight. She still found flowers to be wonders, stars to be mysteries worth exploring every night, and each morning would share every detail of her previous dream. Maker, she was full of so much light. And like a moth, he’d been drawn to it. 

He took his time with her, not wanting to do anything to the innocence of her heart. But she, once she caught on to his fancy, offered no such hesitation. She started glancing at him, giving him strange looks, and then just plain staring him in the face from across the campfire. 

“What?” he would ask.

“No? Alright then,” would be her response.

Until one day, after a near fatal encounter with a high dragon, she pulled him into a desperate kiss for fear of losing him. When he pulled his scarlet face away from hers he offered a rose, slightly wilted. 

She was warm and gentle, her mere presence enough to bring peace to his heart. He would hold her, feel the muscles in her arms tighten around him, her nose burrow softly against his neck. And she’d whisper something. Perhaps, “I love you” or “You damned nug” or some other endearment. The tone with which she spoke when she said those things was unique. He’d never heard her speak that way, with such softness and…well, she managed to make the words smile. She managed to make them smile that same smile she gave to the sun when it rose each morning. 

He loved her. Maker, he loved her so much. And she loved him. That reciprocated love filled him with so much happiness, made him feel as if everything would be okay, that maybe the world was going to be okay. He felt rested. Yes, that’s the best way to explain it. As if he’d been so tired, and was finally rested. 

And then that night. The night before the battle with the Archdemon. She came bursting into his chamber, obviously upset by something. When he asked what, she shook her head. Told him it didn’t matter, to just hold her. They kissed, and he suddenly felt the weight of reality. He could lose her. They’d never spent the night together. He decided not to ask her as they lay together, but she would pull him into a passionate kiss and things would develop naturally. 

The next day, she ordered that he stay by the gate. A grave look was set on her face, something he’d never seen. But there was no room that day for blissful smiles and cloud-watching. 

Take down an ogre, a horde, worry. Wonder how close she is. Slash through a couple more darkspawn, assist Zevran, worry. Wonder if she’s hurt. Watch the dragon in the distance, feel the curdling darkness in his blood. Know that she’s feeling it too. Soon it will be over. Whether they win or lose, soon it will all be over. Curse her for leaving you here, wish you were with her. 

The dragon falls, something seems wrong. A feeling in his gut tells him something went sour. Some part of the plan didn’t go accordingly, and…

That big, bright light. A beacon for all of Thedas, announcing the defeat of the Archdemon and the end of the Blight. Success. They’d done it, despite the odds. At first, he rallied the others, lead the cries of victory. Soon he would see his love again, and they could live on. She’d done it. Maker, she was amazing. The Archdemon was dead, and…

There’s a body, a face he recognizes. Pulled in as a priority, as all Grey Wardens’ bodies are sacred…

Riordan. 

At first his mind pieces together a desperate wish. A hopeless dream. A warden had to die, and there was a dead warden. Just as planned, Riordan had done his duty. But no. They couldn’t have retrieved him so quickly…and he doubted the body was to look like that…would there be a body?

Unfortunately, yes. And there she was, in Sten’s arms, lifeless. He felt as if his blood had turned to lead. He fell to his knees, crying out. He shut his eyes tight, refusing to see. No, Maker above, dearest Andraste, not her! She couldn’t…

Sten bent down, presenting her to him. He expected her to rouse, as she always had when he’d nudged her awake. But as Alistair held her hand, shook her shoulders, gathered her in his arms, sobbed into her neck, there was no reaction. No tightening of the muscles as they worked to support her. He found himself fumbling with her neck, her arms, her body as he tried to hold her. He wanted her to help, to position herself comfortably in his arms as she always had. He waited for the usual nuances of movement, the twitching of fingers or furrowing of her brow. But her mouth hung agape, her limbs useless, her chest maddeningly still. He held her close, broken by the absence of her breath on his skin. Broken by the cold seeping into her body. Broken by the way he had to hold her, like an infant born that very morning. He was frustrated, realizing she'd never be able to move again. Her body, robed in green, her hair cut like a fairy and colored like sunflowers, her lips...Maker, was she still smiling?

He did not sleep that night. He stayed awake, watching the stars all night. Whatever was up there, he hated it. He didn’t care if she was meant to die. If it was part of some divine plan. He only cared that she shouldn’t have had to die. She should have been able to see the world without the Blight hanging over it. Now he realized why she’d loved the sunrise so much. Being in that tower, she never got to see anything. Finally, she was let out, but she could only see the world in chaos. But she still found it beautiful, because of that chaos. That complexity, all under the sky. She’d never get to see the rest of it. Together, they could have gone out and seen it all. 

But their world had stopped. Their story was over. And there, he could see it from his window, the beginnings of a fire. A deep crimson at the pit of the furnace, stoked by the wind. And slowly the sky burst once again into flame, one more brilliant than they’d seen in the past year at camp. Certainly it was a deeper pink than he’d ever seen. It was almost red. He recalled a rhyme he was taught as a child, to tell if a storm was coming.

_Red skies at night, sailors’ delight.  
Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning._


End file.
